


Blowing Off Steam

by kethni



Category: Justified, Veep (TV)
Genre: Crossover Pairings, M/M, One Night Stands, Please Don't Hate Me, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25788334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kethni/pseuds/kethni
Summary: Most days he’d just stay home and get drunk, but the familiar little itch had been building for a while. The time had come to scratch it.
Relationships: Kent Davison/Tim Gutterson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	Blowing Off Steam

It wasn’t such a long drive from Lexington to Frankfort, but it felt far enough to be safe. Whatever “safe” meant. He went after work. It had been a long day. There’d been a lot of those lately. He deserved to blow off some steam. Most days he’d just stay home and get drunk, but the familiar little itch had been building for a while. The time had come to scratch it.

He hadn’t dressed up. He never felt comfortable with it. You didn’t use your real name. You didn’t tell people your real job. Those were just givens. But dressing up like someone he wasn’t was a step too far. A plaid shirt and undershirt, a pair of jeans, and hiking boots, felt natural and comfortable. That took the edge off his unease.

It wasn’t just doing this that made him uneasy. He always had a background level of uneasiness, just being conscious, but lots of other things amped it up. Being among large groups of people made him more uneasy. Being in dark rooms where visibility was low made him more uneasy. He knew why that was. PTSD. Shellshock. Gross stress reaction. Dysphoria. Call it whatever you want. The name changed but nothing else did.

The bar wasn’t the only one in Frankfort he could’ve visited but it was the only one that suited his need. It wasn’t so much that he had a problem with the sartorial options available with the other bars: biker wear, red neck chic, or faux military costume, as much as a problem with the type of men who frequented them. _Some_ people seemed to find nothing wrong in spending their R&R in places full of low criminals and other undesirables. He felt differently. He spent most of his days dealing with criminals and other assholes. When he was in his off hours, he’d rather not spend more time with them. Sure, he was out of place in this bar, but he’d have been out of place in those bars too. At least in this place, among the businessmen and lawyers, the criminals were past his pay grade.

And he knew damn well that plenty of those kinds of men were excited by the idea of someone like him. Someone from the other side of socio-economic divide. Someone with calluses on their hands and the “wrong” kind of accent. He knew what they thought of him and he knew that they had no damn idea. Sometimes he thought it would be interesting to see these rich, self-important assholes, meet the real good old boys. See how they’d get on with a Dewey Crowe or Dickie Bennett. It was easy to fetishize rednecks until you met them and realised “redneck” was a broad church indeed and might just include Nazi tattoos, no teeth, and a raging oxy addiction. 

He had a couple tattoos, one on his wrist and one on his chest, but they were military. He sure as hell didn’t have any White Supremacy bullshit. Whatever DNA and brain damage you needed to go down the toothless, Nazi, oxy addict route, he didn’t have.

Tim sat down at the bar and waited for the bartender to wander over. Tim wasn’t in a rush. Rushing wasn’t something that came naturally to him. Not in his day to day life and not when he was on duty. Patient. Thoughtful. Oh, sure, he was a lot of other things too: cynical, sarcastic, frequently given to deflecting with humour. But those were accessories. Ways of dressing up what was true in the bedrock. He had been trained to spend an hour, a day, a week, a month, watching a target without worrying, without undue anxiety, and without emotional attachment.

He killed his targets with the same patient, thoughtful, caution. He killed them, reported to his superiors, wrote his reports, smiled, and made jokes.

Got so drunk he couldn’t string two coherent words together.

Broke down in the commissary.

Woke up screaming at nights.

Put on a plaid shirt and undershirt, a pair of jeans, and hiking boots, to go to an expensive bar in Frankfort and wait for some rich older guy to send a drink his way.

Some people would call it demeaning. The sort of people who cared what other people thought about them. Tim didn’t give two short shits what other people thought about him. If some banker or businessman wanted to come down from his ivory tower and get his kicks picking up some blue-collar guy like it was so damn digressive, then Tim saw no reason to piss on his parade. Regular people needed a little dose of wickedness in their lives. It made them feel alive.

He registered the man coming into the bar. Not in a big way. He didn’t turn to look or any of that shit. He just heard the door and the movement of body, clothes, and shoes. He just saw the faintest outline in the farthest corner of his eye. Maybe he caught the trace of aftershave mingled with the cocktail of street scents that rushed in when the door opened.

His shrink called it “hypervigilance.” Sometimes it was _exactly_ as much of a pain in the ass as his shrink thought. Sometimes it was the one thing keeping him from getting shot, blown up, or otherwise sent to join his maker.

The man’s shoes tapped against the wooden floor. Dress shoes. That narrowed things down. Tim took a small sip of his bourbon, just slightly turning his head, and faintly registered a silver-grey suit.

The Silver Suit sat one sat over from Tim. He waited with his hands clasped lightly until the bartender to walk over.

‘Scotch please.’

‘Which one?’

Silver Suit looked at Tim. ‘Which would you recommend?’

Tim raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t often a target realised that he was watching.

‘I’m drinking Wild Turkey.’

Silver Suit nodded. ‘A Wild Turkey, and one for the gentleman.’

Tim nodded. He didn’t move to the seat between them. He didn’t have any qualms about being picked up. If he honest that was why he was there. But he wasn’t gonna sit up and beg for it.

Besides, he’d noticed the flag pin on Silver Suit’s lapel. Picked up by a businessman, sure. Banker, maybe. Political type? Not so much. It was better than lawyer, admittedly, but not much.

Lawyer was the nadir. He knew there were plenty of his colleagues who dallied with criminals. One former colleague in particular came to mind.

Tim never did that. Criminals were the enemy. Criminal lawyers aided and abetted the enemy. That was their _job_. You didn’t dally with the enemy. Not ever. That was basic.

‘That’s good,’ Silver Suit said, almost to himself. He seemed to notice Tim’s attention. ‘Apologies. I have no doubt that’s irritating.’

Tim shrugged. ‘You always inoculate irritation with alcohol?’

‘First time.’

‘It’s working for you,’ Tim drawled.

Silver Suit held out his hand. ‘Kent.’

‘Joe.’

The bartender snorted and then reddened when he saw them look at him.

‘Thanks for nothing, Bill,’ Tim said.

Kent chuckled. ‘So much for the famous discretion of bartenders.’

Tim shook his head. ‘Disappointing.’

Kent turned a little on his seat to look at Tim. ‘That doesn’t sound like a local accent.’

‘Yours neither.’

Kent moved to the chair that had been between them. ‘I’m from Oregon originally.’

‘I can hear it,’ Tim said. ‘I’m an Indiana boy.’

Kent nodded. ‘You’re a police officer?’

Tim blinked. ‘Law enforcement,’ he said slowly. ‘Where does it show?’

‘Military bearing,’ he said. ‘But you’re used to carrying a concealed weapon.’

Tim sipped his whiskey. ‘Maybe I’m a serial killer.’

Kent smiled slightly. ‘A remarkably brazen one. You don’t hide when you automatically check your holster. When you assess the heft of it against you, or the lack of it. It’s subconscious but that’s no less meaningful.’

‘Well, shit. All I got for you was political guy, and that was only because of the flag pin.’

Kent nodded. ‘But you didn’t punch me. I consider that a plus.’

Tim smiled slightly. ‘You get punched often?’

‘Sometimes in bars,’ he said. ‘On the day to day not so much. The Secret Service tend to get in the way, albeit unwittingly.’

‘They’re protecting your boss?’

Kent nodded. ‘First sign of trouble I hide behind her.’

Tim sniggered. ‘I’ve never tried that.’

‘It’s not very practical. She’s very short.’

Tim thought about it. ‘In heels mine’s about my height. I do like imagining the look on her face though.’

Kent finished his drink. ‘You want another?’

Tim shook his head. ‘You wanna get out of here?’

Kent nodded slowly. ‘I’m at the hotel around the corner.’

Tim pulled on his jacket. ‘Good. I hate that awkward time you spend travelling, don’t you?’

***

Your tax dollars at work. Tim tucked his hands in his pockets as he looked around the hotel room. He’d been patted down by the Secret Service. They hadn’t done a particularly good job, but he wasn’t in any mood to raise a complaint about it.

He watched Kent adjust the lights. ‘Warning might’ve been nice,’ he suggested. ‘Some folks might find frisking ruins the mood.’

Kent looked genuinely surprised. ‘I didn’t think.’

‘Guys you pick up in D.C. just roll with it?’

Kent took out his cufflinks as he walked over. ‘In D.C. I just take them home.’

Tim took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door. ‘How’d you stop word getting out?’

The other man looked surprised. ‘I don’t.’

‘You don’t?’

‘It’s not an issue.’ Kent gave Tim a thoughtful look. He raised his hand slowly and began unbuttoning Tim’s shirt. ‘A different world, I guess,’ he said. ‘I’m curious, does it being forbidden make it sweeter?’

‘You’re older than me,’ Tim said without any malice. ‘Must’ve been plenty of times smiling at the wrong man in the wrong bar could be a death sentence.’

‘Sure, but I never did that.’ 

Tim licked his lips. ‘You never smiled in bars?’ 

‘I never went into the wrong bars or smiled at the wrong men,’ Kent said. ‘Not because I was especially clever but mostly because I was too much of a coward.’

‘Right,’ Tim said. ‘Because when you walked the bar tonight brimming with confidence and assurance I totally thought, that’s a coward if I ever saw one.’

‘Things change,’ Kent said. He leaned in and kissed Tim.

It wasn’t what he expected. Not demanding. Not commanding. Not controlling. Not lustful.

Careful. Considerate. Cautious. Maybe all three. Not what he expected but okay.

Gentle. Not okay. Gentle was… What the fuck was he supposed to do with gentle?

‘What’s wrong?’ Kent asked. ‘Do you want something different?’

‘Jesus, I don’t know. What kind of a question is that?’

Kent smiled. ‘An honest one. Consent is –’

‘For pussies?’

‘ – important,’ Kent said. ‘You’re much younger than you look. Much younger than your years.’

Tim rolled his eyes. ‘I’m standing in your bedroom with my shirt open and my dick hard.’ He kissed the other man. It was a hard kiss. Aggressive. And he bit Kent’s lower lip. ‘Believe me, I’m more than old enough.’

Kent trailed his tongue along his lower lip, enjoying the slight pain from the bite. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

Tim turned and strolled over to the bed. ‘Why don’t you show me what you mean instead?’

‘I need to know that this is what you want,’ Kent said. 

Tim sat on the bed. ‘You want it in writing? Jesus. Come over here and fuck me. Or I’ll fuck you. Either works. What doesn’t work is all the talking. You get me?’

Kent nodded. ‘I get you.’

***

Being “in the moment” could be difficult. Tim’s mind sometimes wandered. Right now, it was wandering to how the sensation of Kent’s beard on skin might feel if it was a different length, a different texture, maybe a different style.

But he didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to think about the warmth of Kent’s mouth. The pressure of his fingertips against Tim’s hips. The delicate, subtle sensation of the other man’s tongue against his shaft.

He didn’t think of anything when he came.

He didn’t think of much when, afterwards, the older man pulled up the covers over them. He was already dozing off by then.

He did wonder what he was doing falling asleep in a stranger’s bed, but not for very long.

***

Waking up could be an issue. Bad dreams. Sudden noises. Just… running out of sleep in the middle of REM sleep could be completely disorienting _at best_.

And waking up disoriented in a strange place had a tendency to result in him cowering in a corner, at best, or waving around a weapon, at worst.

Being in a strange room with someone hammering on the door was hardly the _best_ thing that could happen. So, when it happened Tim automatically rolled away from the noise, dropping behind the bed, and scrabbling among his clothes for the weapon that he totally hadn’t brought with him.

Then he woke up.

‘I cannot believe the newspapers! Have you read this bullshit?’

Woman’s voice. Not southern. Not old. More annoyed than angry.

‘Ma’am, it’s six in the morning,’ Kent said. More tired than annoyed.

‘I know! I can’t believe how lazy you fuckers are.’

She was getting closer. The sound of her voice changed as she moved. The reverberations were different. Tim was a soldier by inclination, sure, but a sniper by training. He was used to long distances. To watching for small movements and interpreting body language because detachment had rendered reality into a variety of silent movie. 

He knew that she was closer purely because she was louder. He didn’t know where in the room she was because she was _too_ loud. Too close.

‘Ma’am, I’ve only just woken up and as you may have noticed I am not in a full state of dress.’

Right. Clothes. This was definitely a situation where being dressed would be a benefit. Tim carefully raised his head to peep over the edge of the bed.

The woman was short, dark-haired, and expensively dressed. She was also looking right at him.

‘Kent, there’s a young man behind your bed,’ she said.

‘Hey,’ Tim said.

Kent winced. ‘Ma’am, my private life is my private life. I would appreciate it if you would step outside a moment and allow my friend to… gather himself together.’

The woman put her hand on her hip. ‘Why is he hiding behind the damn bed, Kent? What the hell did you do?’

‘I have PTSD, Ma’am,’ Tim said. ‘Loud noises and sudden surprises, like someone banging on a door when I’m sleeping, make me a mite… anxious.’

She tapped her foot. ‘Is that it? He didn’t do anything to you?’

Tim shook his head. ‘Nothing I didn’t want him to do.’

‘Well now I think _I_ might have PTSD,’ she said. ‘The idea of you getting it on with anyone, Kent is… ugh…’ She waved her hand. ‘I’m gonna wait outside for five minutes.’

‘I… I don’t even know where to begin,’ Kent said as the door shut behind her.

‘You could pass me my clothes,’ Tim suggested.

‘Was that true about the PTSD?’ Kent asked as he gathered up the clothes and handed them over.

‘I’m not entirely up to date on current events,’ Tim said as he stood up. ‘But wasn’t that…’

‘The President, yes.’

‘Of the United States.’

Kent nodded. ‘For what little it’s worth, she’s never done that before.’

‘I kinda figured since she seemed pretty surprised that you had a guy in here.’

Kent scratched his head. ‘A guy hiding behind the bed. I think anyone would find that a surprise.’

‘She startled me.’

‘Do you always hide behind furniture when you’re startled?’

Tim finished dressing. ‘Depends if I have my gun.’

‘Dear Lord. I’m grateful you didn’t if the result would’ve been you shot her. That would’ve been extremely difficult to explain.’

Tim rolled his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t have shot. I don’t fire blind. I do however draw my weapon and face down the potential source of threat if I’m startled.’

‘Pulling a gun on her even without shooting would be quite an issue even so,’ Kent said dryly. He sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what, the President of the United States seeing me completely humiliate myself? No big.’

The other man winced. ‘I hope that you didn’t feel humiliated. I’m sure that she understood your point about PTSD.’

‘I’m kidding,’ Tim said easily. ‘Flashing my junk to the most powerful person on Earth is probably gonna the highlight of my life. How many people can say they’ve done that? Can you?’

‘No, I…’ Kent stopped and then clapped his hands. ‘Very good. I can see that you must be a very efficient interrogator. No, I have never had that kind of relationship with her.’

Tim straightened his hair. ‘She did come stomping in like she owned the place. You can’t blame me for being curious.’

‘I suppose not.’ Kent put his hands on his hips. ‘I suppose that it would be redundant now to ask if I could see you again.’

Tim was quiet for a minute. ‘Aren’t you going back to D.C.?’

‘It’s only a ninety-minute flight. I’m generally working too late during the week to do anything but go home and fall asleep but next weekend I could easily fly down.’

Tim nodded slowly. ‘That could be fun.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yeah. You want my number?’

Kent smiled. ‘Please.’

***

It had obviously been far longer than Selina Meyer had been able to wait patiently. She was instead marching up and down the corridor.

‘Getting your steps in?’ Tim asked.

‘You’re a cheeky fucker for someone I caught cowering,’ she retorted.

He nodded easily. ‘I’m glad you appreciated it. Can I have an autograph?’

She stopped and looked at him. ‘An autograph? You look fifteen years old. Shouldn’t you be asking for a selfie?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m thirty-one, Ma’am, and I hate selfies. I prefer the quiet dignity of an autograph.’

She stared at him as if waiting for the punchline. ‘Okay,’ she said eventually. ‘Gary! Where the hell are you? Kent’s toyboy wants an autograph. You got a piece of paper and a oh… wait. I have a much better idea.’ She grinned at Tim. ‘How about a signed photograph?’

‘That would be awesome,’ he said, suspicious of her sudden glee.

She snapped her fingers at a man who looked faintly familiar until he dug into the huge bag he was holding and pulled out a sheaf of photographs. As Selina then ransacked the bag, Gary looked Tim up and down.

‘You don’t look like a Twink,’ he said doubtfully. ‘You’re far too old.’

‘A compliment and an insult all at once. Kudos for efficiency.’ Tim held out his fist with a bump. He half expected the aide to ignore it, but instead he returned the fist bump with a kind of bemused fascination.

‘Here ya go,’ Selina said, handing Tim a photograph.

She had signed her name in vivid red lipstick.

‘The Phoenix Sunset Blush!’ Gary wailed.

Tim grinned at the picture. ‘That’s so much cooler than ink.’

She beamed at him. ‘Be real careful now or it’ll smear everywhere.’

‘I will guard it with every ounce of my being,’ Tim promised. ‘Once I get my weapons back from your security detail.’

‘You have weapons?’ Gary breathed.

‘He’s a cop,’ Selina said dismissively. ‘He’s allowed.’

‘Deputy Marshal,’ Tim said. He offered her a salute. ‘With your permission, Ma’am, I need to get home.’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you. Don’t let Ben scare you too much.’

‘Uh, okay,’ he said. Had he met a Ben? He didn’t think so.

Downstairs, he collected his primary and secondary weapons from the Secret Service and slipped them into the holsters.

‘They make you feel manly?’

Tim turned around. An older man, thick set, clutching a huge insulated mug, trod heavily towards him. Tim looked him up and down.

‘I’ve nothing to compare it to,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’m deeply in touch with my feminine side but I just don’t know it.’ He cocked his head. ‘Although I supposed if I was deeply in touch with my feminine side then I would have the intuition to know it.’

The older man moved into Tim’s personal space. ‘’If you mess with Kent then I will fuck you up.’

Tim’s lips twisted into something between a smile and a sneer. ‘That so? Well, I only have room on my dance card for one sexy older guy and he’s in a room back there. But if I get a space, I will _totally_ let you know.’ He winked as he took a step back and walked around him.

The End.


End file.
